


revival mode

by glitchesaintshit



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Werewolves, You Know I Had To Do It To Em, [sad dab], there is kissing tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchesaintshit/pseuds/glitchesaintshit
Summary: John's got a problem. Enter werewolf, stage left.aka better living through lycanthropy
Relationships: John 5/Jim Root
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13
Collections: Love Is Stored In The Knot





	revival mode

**Author's Note:**

> SO INSTEAD OF DOING THE THING I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DOING I WAS ON TWITTER & SAW A TWEET & ACCIDENTALLY MADE TWO MORE WEREWOLF UNIVERSES OFF THAT HORRIBLE SEED OF AN IDEA
> 
> ONE IS HURTY THEN STUPID, ONE IS HURTY  
> THIS IS THE HURTY ONE  
> SORRY NOT SORRY
> 
> in my defense i was left unattended
> 
> i'm sorry for continually unleashing my experiments on you all thank you for sticking with me

_“Are you okay?”_

He nods, wad of toilet paper held to his nose spotted through with red. Eyes ringed red. Cheeks streaked red. Flushed, fucked up; blood in the air. Sitting on the porch steps, the house with the lilacs in the front yard & a lawn Jim’s dogwalking charge Herman can never seem to fucking resist. “Yeah it’s--’s nothing, I’m fine.” He sniffs, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand and pushing blonde hair back behind his ear, forcing a smile. Midwest polite. Brown eyes. Pretty, cried-out. 

“Just a fight. Boyfriend. Y’know.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Still inside.” 

Jim’s halfway up the steps, crossing the porch in two strides and practically ripping the screen door off its hinges, halfway in the house before the voice comes up behind him. The smell of dinner still simmering on the stove. Starch, tomatoes, someone else’s laundry detergent. Salt, iron, fear.

“Where are you going?”

He can feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck, the itch in his bones. Ache. Bone & iron & scraped palms & for once it’s a blessing, not a curse. He growls back, 

_“Feral.”_

\--

Blood, iron, fear, bone, betrayal. Anger, fear. Shock. Confusion. _Dontfuckingtouchhimdontfuckingtouchhimdontfuckingtouchhim. Don’t you ever fucking touch him._

Flesh tearing, clothes tearing, stranger’s adrenaline-sweat on leather pants. Boyfriend yells obscenities and swings at his body; it feels like nothing. 

_DontfuckingtouchhimI’llcomeforyouinthenightdontfuckingtouchhim_

Bites hard enough to frighten but not break skin; more claws than teeth. Inside, it’s all teeth. Fire. Fire. Rage. _Gotohellyoupieceofshit._ Blood, iron, brimstone. Running. 

Chase. Growl. Teeth. Teeth. Gnashing from a distance.

Heart pounding, flannel shirt on the dining room floor when he comes back in. Boots...somewhere. Redressing in the bathroom, missing a left sock but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t matter. Took care of it. 

Heart beating _no no no no no no no. Not again. Never again._ Hard, fast.

Washing the blood from under his fingernails in the bathroom sink. Hand towels with jack o’ lanterns on them he doesn’t want to stain. He wipes his hands on his pants, helps himself to a glass of water. Turns the stove off. Sees himself out.

\--

He’s still on the front porch, lilacs in the air & summer sunset burning both of them up yellow-orange, staring out at the street & the blue sky gone purple around the trees, pink further down. Simmering gold. Blood drying on the tissue, iron turning to rust. Jim sits down.

He swallows hard, needles pricking the lump in the back of his throat. Anger, sorrow; fear. He smells tight.

_“Where is he?”_

“Took care of it.”

“What’d you do?”

_“Does it matter?”_

He looks at his feet, barefoot on the porch steps. Jim notices he’s wearing nail polish--chipped, not real silver. Paint-silver. _A friend._

“I’m James. Jim--whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

_“John.”_

He forces another smile, nodding a little to no one. He’s got the tissue clenched in his hand tight tight tight, curled into a little fist on the worn treads; gray paint flaking off the wood. Jim sets his hand down over his, bites down the way his massive paw dwarfs the other. Squeezes, gentle. Soft. He’s breakable. Like a baby bird. 

“Why’d you do it though?” 

Voice so quiet Jim’s barely even sure he heard it but he can feel the pulse in John’s knuckles; the tiny way his hand shakes. Expectant; somehow waiting for the worst but he’s safe here. Jim would never. _Not you._

“Just a nice person, y’know?”

It’s Jim’s turn to force a smile, aiming for something soft, no teeth, _trust me._ It feels tired. Everything’s silence except the birds in the trees and a train passing in the distance; the even-farther-away roar of the freeway. 

John’s hand relaxes and Jim doesn’t miss the soft way his head comes to rest on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim reaches up to slip an arm around his thin frame. 

_“It’s okay.”_

He relaxes.

\--

“You can text me if he shows back up, but I really don’t think he’s gonna.”

“What if he doesn’t though?”

“What do you mean?”

_“Can I still text you?”_

Jim knows he looks gobsmacked cuz he can’t arrange his human face to the appropriate face for this situation; this emotion. John looks hopeful. Defiant. Lingering in the doorway; screen propped open with his foot, light spilling golden out into the dark around them as june bugs & moths find their way in. Chin up. Expectant, wanting, starry-eyed, easy to read. Breath sweet in summer night. 

He feels so small under Jim’s hands until their lips come together and then he comes to life, hand slipping around Jim’s back under his flannel shirt, fingertips digging into the softness around his sides, palm smoothing. Roaming, tasting, desperate exploration. Electric. Heat & softness & a/c, worn t-shirts, bleary eyes; dried sweat & fear & bubblegum. Comfort, softness, the tiniest bite into Jim’s lips that makes his knees go weak & his cock stir, hips pushing against him with magnetic firmness. _Yes. Yesyesyesyesyes._

He’s glassy eyed when Jim pulls away, a taut ball of arousal. Jim can smell it on him. Delicious. So fucking delicious. He wants to rut into him, cradle him in his arms while he fucks up into him and works his cock like he’s trying to breed. _Yes._ He’s intoxicating. Supernova. An angel. His mouth soft & shiny & warm, something Jim wants to fucking kiss forever. 

“I think that means yes,” he teases, quiet. Barest hint of a smile. Flushed cheeks. Jim just tucks the hair back behind his ear; soft. Kisses his forehead once for the road. 

_“Goodnight, John.”_

He’s smiling when Jim walks away. Dreamy.


End file.
